


Neighbor Issues

by beautifullikesin



Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Neighbor issues, Other, how the turntables have turned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2019-10-04 12:15:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17304443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullikesin/pseuds/beautifullikesin
Summary: Ziggy is just a simple man, trying to make it in the music industry, plagued by his noisy neighbors who will not stop having really loud sex.





	1. Chapter 1

Ziggy knows that the dude’s face didn’t really stretch and twist like that—that was a hallucination, a result of the drugs he must have, somehow, ingested. All the same, he’s still started calling him Scary Face whenever he hears him unlocking his door, or riding away on his bike. Or fucking his girlfriend. Which he does all the time. Constantly.

He never hears Scary Face’s girlfriend—he’s never seen her, either, come to think of it—but _someone_ must be in there with him, because he can hear the dude begging and pleading and moaning all night long. 

Four a.m. and Ziggy’s in the hallway outside Scary Face’s door, facing the same familiar peeling numbers, listening to the usual violent-sounding thumps and _oh God's_ and _no's_ and _please's_.

For what is maybe the tenth time, he lifts his hand to knock. Practices his speech. _Hey, guys, could you maybe keep it down?_ But then, like always, he sees the dude’s face again, warped with teeth. _A bad trip_ , he chides himself. _It didn’t happen_. But a chill runs down his spine and, like every time before, he turns and heads back to his place.

He’s having a really hard time.

\---------

At around 4:30 Scary Face comes, moans— _good for you, bro,_ Ziggy thinks—and the noises fade into soft murmurs. Ziggy winces in the darkness. This is the worst part. The sex is pretty bad, but if he works at it, he can pretend it’s a just a porno he left on in the background. But the murmuring afterwards, no doubt the usual post-coital I-love-yous and how-was-its, that’s what reminds him of Alicia.

There are a lot of girls in San Fran who will have sex with you, especially if you’re in a band. 

There aren’t a lot of Alicias.

He could put in headphones and max out the volume. A lot of times, he does. But sometimes, as embarrassing as it is to admit it, he _wants_ to hear it. Not so he can get off to it. Just because it’s real, concrete evidence that someone, somewhere in the world is getting fucked tonight. After Alicia walked out, sometimes it seems like there’s no such thing as love. Like the whole thing was all made up. Just a big, cosmic fuck-you from God.

Listening to Scary Face and his girlfriend makes Ziggy violently jealous and heartbroken and hopeful, all at the same time. He doesn’t know why, but part of him _likes_  feeling that way. He _likes_ to feel like shith. He likes living in a shithole. He likes being a good-for-nothing guitarist-slash-dishwasher in a band that isn’t taking off and probably never will. He _likes_ living up to everyone’s bad expectations. He _likes_ suffering.

But he also likes sleeping.

Rage bubbles up inside him. This _asshole_. This complete, fucking, hypocritical asshole. _"_ Can you turn your music down?"  Followed by three months of nonstop, top-volume sex. And the whole Scary Face hallucination has Ziggy too chickenshit to do anything about it. He's taken to listening hard, waiting for the guy to lock up and leave, so he can steal some practice time. Playing was the only thing that he enjoyed doing, and now he can’t.

 _Something’s gonna change_ , he vows to his ceiling fan, again. _Listen, DICK. Shut the fuck up with the fucking sex. Alright??_

He practices his speech until he falls asleep, and then his alarm goes off.

 

 


	2. Planning

Ziggy isn’t _scared_ of confronting Scary Face—who will henceforth be referred to as Loud Guy, he reminds himself.

He’s _planning_. He’s _devising a strategy_. He’s gathering information. That’s why he didn’t confront the dude yesterday. Or the day after that.

Apart from the fact that he has a lot of sex, Loud Guy is pretty boring. He leaves at 8 in the morning. He comes back around 6. He carries in bags of groceries. He carries out bags of trash. His clothes are unremarkable. He is unremarkable.

His bike is impressive. Ziggy snapped a picture and showed it to the guys at the restaurant. It’s a Ducati Scrambler, $10k when it was new. Meaning the guy either had a bunch of money and lost it, or, worse, is the kind of tool who spends all his money on his bike and nothing on his life. Considering the state of these apartments, it’s most likely the latter.

The guy must definitely live with his girlfriend, because he hears them talking all the time. At least, he hears the dude’s side of the conversation; the girls’ voice is too soft to hear. He’s never seen her, though.

But he can’t fight the feeling that something is off in that apartment. Something big. Maybe it’s because of the other hallucination. That time, he really was high off his ass on Lucy—that was the night Alicia’d called—and it was also his first real hallucination. Usually, L just twisted stuff around—made it look bigger, smaller, scarier. This time, he saw actual bodies on the floor in the hallway. Thought he heard gunshots, too. And Scary Face Loud Guy was there? Ziggy’s not sure. All he remembers is throwing the door shut on a lot of noise. When he came to the next morning, there were beer bottles all around him. Drinking and LSD, something they said you should never do.

After that, he got rid of all the shit in the house. He’s back on the beer, but he hasn’t gone back to the stuff.

That guy, though.

That guy.

He’s _changed_. He used to be all gray-faced and miserable, every time they passed in the hallway. Now, he’s always got a spring in his step, whistles sometimes, even. He seems cleaner, friendlier, even bigger, somehow? Maybe he got himself into rehab. Maybe that night that he hammered on Ziggy’s door, he was tweaking, and now he’s in recovery.

That makes sense, but Ziggy shakes the thought away. He doesn’t want to feel pity for the guy. He wants to beat the ever-loving shit out of him. Which he will. Because this guy is normal. _Normal._

Normal, and a class-A introvert. Tomorrow’s Saturday, which means Loud Guy will be inside all day long. That’s when he’ll do it, Ziggy tells himself. No more excuses.

Tomorrow.


	3. Surprise

But tomorrow never comes. What comes is a call from Geronimo’s, which informs him that they’ve had to make a few decisions, and this season’s been really slow, and they’re not making their goals, yadda yadda, bottom line: he’s been let go from the restaurant.

Kelly, the blonde assistant manager upon whom this job has definitely been shoved, rambles nervously about how it’s nothing personal and they’ll be happy to give him a good reference, but he knows the truth: it _is_ him.

He’s been sluggish, a lot of times he’s been high, late, cutting out back for smoke breaks, and cancelling shifts to go to gigs. He’s a _dishwasher_. Aside from being basically able-bodied, there’s only one thing they need him to be: reliable. And he isn’t.

And the phone clicks shut, and Ziggy’s left in silence, except it’s not silent, because here they go again— _Oh, fuck, Oh, God, don’t, no_ — And Ziggy’s up and he’s pissed and he’s _had it_ with this jackass.

He hammers the door, a mirror of what Loud Guy did to him months ago.

Then he waits. There’s silence. A murmur of voices. More silence. They’re going to pretend they didn’t hear him.

He hammers again. _Bambambambambambambam_!

There's a beat, and then he hears the floors creak as someone crosses them.

“--not a cop,” Ziggy hears the guy saying, and then the door opens. Loud guy is unexpectedly fully-clothed, looking slightly ruffled but mostly perplexed.

“Can we help you?” he says.

“Yeah, you can help me,” Ziggy snaps. “You can help me by _shutting the fuck up_.”

The guy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Sorry?”

“You have the fucking nerve to come at me for playing my music, and now you and Cinderella in there won’t stop going at it every single night—you know these walls are paper thin, but I guess you’re too fucking cool to have basic common decency for your neighbors?”

He’s actually panting.

Loud Guy looks shocked, but then his expression shifts to one of anger.

“Stop it,” he snaps.

“Stop what? Stop asking you to shut the fuck up?”

“Stop. Just stop. Calm down,” he says.

“I _would_ be calm if you weren’t keeping me up all night, jackass!”

"It’s not worth it. We’ll just make things worse for ourselves."  

_“What?”_

“He’s just a random guy,” he says.

“Are you—are you seriously trying to talk yourself out of taking a swing at me?” Ziggy laughs, incredulous.

“I—no, shut up. Uh, we have to go,” Loud Guy says. And just like that, he’s back in his apartment. And Ziggy’s staring at the peeling letters again.

No. Fucking— _no_! Blood boils into his face and he throws the door open. And sees—something horrible.

And the something horrible lunges at him.

And for the second time in so many weeks, Ziggy hits the floor. 


	4. I Didn't Fuck the Snake

“Fuck.”

He’s lying on something soft, and everything is blurry.

“I can’t believe you did that. We _talked_ about this.”

The room shifts into focus, revealing Loud Guy gazing painfully at— _something_.

The _something_ is black and pointy and shiny, and it’s the same _something_ that Ziggy last saw before he hit the floor. He groans as it all comes back to him. The door. The guy. The knocking.

“Please,” he chokes out, wheezing.

“Shit. Uh, we’re not going to hurt you,” the guy says.

“ _Please…”_ Ziggy says again.  

“What? You need something? Water?”

“Please…stop…having…loud sex.” Ziggy finishes. There. It’s done. Whatever else happens, he did it.

The dude is silent.

“Um. Is that…seriously what you came to say?”

“You didn’t hear me before?”

“I kind of just block everything out when someone’s yelling at me,” the guy says, taking a seat on the adjacent couch. “I honestly had no idea what you were going on about. Uh, so…are you okay?”

Ziggy considers. His head hurts. But in spite of that, he feels a little… _good._ Something about being attacked by an enormous slime creature, plus finally getting out what he’s been struggling for so long to say, has brought on an enormous sense of catharsis.

“We couldn’t find any marks on you,” the guy continues. “I don’t think he bit you. He _says_ he didn’t.”

Wearily, Ziggy allows himself to lift his eyes from the guy, to the… _thing_.

It’s _huge_ , curled up in an armchair that’s barely big enough to hold it. It looks like a cross between a great white shark, an eel, and a python—smooth, serpentine, and jet black. As Ziggy watches, it opens a ridiculously huge mouth, revealing long, knife-like teeth.  

“Izzat,” Ziggy says, struggling to process everything, “Is that. Your pet?”

“Uh. Yes,” the guys says. The thing hisses at him.

“Uh. Okay…so…where’s your girlfriend?”

“My what? Oh. She, uh. She…left out the back.”    

At this, the thing emits an angry-sounding growl.

“Jesus, okay, okay,” the guys says exasperatedly. “Okay, we’ll just tell you. It’s not like anyone will believe you, and you’re too small to hurt us. Uh, so _this_ is my girlfriend. Boyfriend. Person.”

He nods towards the snake. Ziggy looks closely to see if there’s somebody near it, or under it, but doesn’t see anyone.

“Uh. Who?”

“Him,” the guys says, poking the snake. “His name’s Venom. Well, kind of. We—well, it’s complicated, don’t worry about it.”

Ziggy blinks. “You fucked the snake?”

“I mean,” the guy says, shifting uncomfortably, “okay, right _now,_ it looks like a snake. But it’s actually a shapeshifter, so it can look like anything it wants. It usually looks like a human.” He prods the thing’s head. “Show him.”

In response, the snake sticks out a very long, long tongue.

“ _Seriously_? God, grow up. Uh, he’s mad at me because I called him an idiot. While you were passed out,” the guy says.

Outside this door, it occurs to Ziggy, there is his safe warm house, and his safe warm bed.

“Like, he _could_ turn into a human, if he wanted, but he’s mad at me right now so he’s punishing me.”

Will they let him escape? Ziggy wonders. If he ran, could he make it to his car?

“I didn’t fuck a snake.” 

He would have to get his keys first…the keys are still in his apartment…

“I fucked a consenting, grown-up alien.”

The word “alien” pulls Ziggy back to the present. “Wait, it’s an _alien_? From another planet?”

“Uh. Yeah. But that stays on the down-low, got it?”

“Where did you find it?” Ziggy asks, excitement overpowering his urge to make a break for it. He always wanted aliens to be real, as a kid, and now—well, whatever this thing is, it’s definitely not anything he’s ever seen before.

So the guy talks. And talks. He takes him through an insane, long story, about a lab, and a rich dude, and grabbing the alien and heading back here. About eating chicken bones out of the garbage, and passing out in his bathtub. When he gets to the part about the rich guy’s goons coming to look for him, Ziggy remembers.

“Fuck. I _saw_ you! I _saw_ you that day.”

“Did you? It’s kind of a blur for me. I was kind of…sick. My body didn’t like it, at first.”

“Wait, you mean the thing? It lives in your body?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

 _And then it comes out to fuck you?_ Ziggy wants to say, but it seems rude.

“So, yeah, then what happened,” the guy continues. “Uh, so then we went through the city on our bike…”

“That’s a cool bike,” Ziggy says despite himself.

The guy smiles, looking genuinely happy. “Thanks. It’s a Scrambler. Ducati Scrambler.”

“I know. I looked it up.”

They laugh, a little awkwardly.

“That is a _sweet_ ride,” Ziggy says.

“Yeah. Thanks. I always loved motorcycles, but I could never afford one. Well, not since my dad…not since I was a kid.”

“That sucks,” Ziggy says. “So, uh, how did you wind up with one? Did your, uh, alien help you get it?”

“Nah. I did a story on a biker gang a while back. Some cops busted in on one of their meetups, shot a few of them with no due process. I did a story on it, big story with lots of interviews. I spent some time living with them, and when I left, they gave me the bike as a thank-you for telling their side.”

He’s quiet for a minute. “We’re not supposed to accept gifts. But…I was afraid of what they’d do to me if I refused. Or at least,” he adds with a wry smile, “that’s what I tell myself.”

“Was it…the Angels?” Ziggy asks, somehow more fascinated by this than by anything else the guy has said.

He looks at his shoes. “I’m still too afraid to say.”

They both laugh, and suddenly Ziggy has this bizarre feeling that he’s on a date, the weirdest date of his life.

“Uh, so what’s your name?” he asks.

“Eddie.”

“Eddie. I’m Ziggy,” Ziggy says, and, at a loss for what to do, puts his hand out. “Sorry about, uh. You know.”

“Sorry about…all this,” Eddie says, looking pained. “I know this is insane. It’s been a weird few months. I didn’t mean for it to…I mean, the less people who know about this, the better.”

“Okay. Well. Keep it down, and no one will,” Ziggy says, and the guy—Eddie—actually flushes.

“So you can actually…hear…”

“Every word, yeah.”

“Great.”

“Yep.”

“He really does turn into a human,” Eddie says. “Like, a man. Or woman.”

“Uh huh.”

“He’s not a snake.”

“Uh huh.”

“Welp, this has been swell. Get out of my apartment,” Eddie says, but in a way that lets Ziggy knows he’s joking. They stand up, Ziggy a little wobbly, and he heads to the door. When he gets to the hallway, he turns around to face Eddie, who, he notices, is a little shorter than he is, and very nervous-looking, and very tired-looking. He hesitates, feeling that he should say something, but uncertain what one says when one has just been almost-killed by one’s alien-possessed neighbor.

“Uh. If you need something, just let me know,” Ziggy says.

“Right. Well, actually,” Eddie says with a short laugh, “you let us—me—know, you know, if you’re ever in trouble. We’re, uh, bulletproof and shit.”

“Right,” Ziggy says, feeling his knees weakening.

And he shuts the door, thinking that this is the weirdest his life could ever possibly get.

Turns out, he is extremely and utterly wrong.  


End file.
